


Triumvirate

by thedalishparade



Series: Apathy [1]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Fortune Telling, I don't know if there are actually rose gardens in Vegas, M/M, More parts coming, Nothing Rhymes with Circus Tour, Ryan is an angsty little shit, cape town, myrtle beach, pre-split panic, sins included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedalishparade/pseuds/thedalishparade
Summary: There are three sins that rule Ryan's life.Three sins that lead to his ultimate demise, and each one came with the presence of a certain crone, a harbinger.





	Triumvirate

**i.**

 

It is late into his eighteenth year when he meets her first, and midway into his twenty-second year when he meets her last.

 

He is young and free; he walks with a skip in his step for the first time in years, the scent of roses everywhere. They used to choke him, but he doesn't mind now- he breathes them in, sultry and giddy as anyone born and raised in Vegas could be.

 

This small garden, enclosed by a wooden fence to shield those inside from the blaring lights, is an oasis in the city of subterfuge and debauchery, Ryan’s own little rabbit hole in the sea of ever-constant photoshoots and paparazzi. 

 

His name is not George, his name is Ryan, and they'd better remember that.

 

The garden is well cared for and attracts a variety of visitors; bored housewives, lovesick couples, old men. A fortune teller peddles her services in a corner. Ryan is not sure if that's legal, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. A memory enters his mind.

 

When the top of Ryan’s head had came just about to his father’s chest, years and years ago, he once happened to glimpse an old beggar woman outside of a convenience store. Feeling sorry for her, he’d started to approach her, taking a bag of chips out of his backpack. 

 

He didn’t know whether old women liked to eat chips. He’d hoped so. But before he’d managed to reach her, he’d been yanked back so hard that his head had whipped back and forth like a petulant brat shaking a rag doll.

“ _What the hell_ are you doing?” Even back then, he had smelt cheap ale on his father’s breath. “Don’t you dare talk to that fucking gypsy.”

The slur had seared its way into the dark crevasses of little Ryan’s mind, echoing and echoing until he all but erased it from his mind. It is a word that still reminds him of uncomfortable things, and he tucked it away in the back of his conscience along with all the other less savoury things in life.

 

And now he is young and foolish, drunk on glory, and he approaches her with a hunger in his eyes. 

 

“Tell me my fortune,” He commands, splaying his hands out on the birch coffee table in front of him, fingers apart. “I need to know.”

 

The subtle grin that meets his words is nothing less than expected, and the crone wordlessly spreads her motley instruments onto the wooden surface with an easy grace, one that Ryan could only wish to have himself. Offering the cards to him, the crone's milky eyes gaze into him with an almost eerie clarity. Ryan avoids her gaze, choosing some of the cards, and scoffs at his apprehension. She's blind, after all, some pathetic nomad creature reduced to haggling in back alleys. Oblivious to his thoughts, the augur once again spreads the cards out, flipping them over one by one. Three.

 His eyes rake the cards, eager to devour his fate.

 

But the woman holds out her hand, and Ryan sighs, digging in his pockets for any loose cents. He finds a few, spilling them into her hand, and he is surprised to find them smooth and unblemished, the pale skin milk-smooth. He’d expected wrinkles and sores and moles, tell-tale indicators that she was just an old crone. But no, she has the hands of a child, soft and innocent.

When Ryan sits down, she begins.

 

"The queen of swords," she announces dryly, tongue laced with the trace of an accent. "The matters of the mind. Your instincts serve you well- you know what you want and how to get it, but mind other people’s boundaries. Don’t chase what doesn’t want to be chased.  You’re a clever one, aren't you?"

"So they say." Ryan's lips are chapped in the southern air, and he runs a tongue over them, grimacing at the salty taste and the sting. He’s pretty sure that there’s supposed to be a bit of a descriptive aspect to the telling- a less artistic person would be puzzled by the abstract concepts, the way the delicate paintings of his fate tie in with the meaning. But the psychic is all business, and it rubs the brunet just the wrong way ever so slightly. He is a spectrum of smoke, a rainstorm waiting for the right light to hit him- to create colour, to create for the sake of it. 

 

“Hm,” she muses, her fingers caressing the card, as if through touch she could see the painting on it, all sharp angles and piercing glares.  “This one can also mean that you’re repressing certain emotions. Don’t take it out on your friends. Pick your battles carefully, and live in the moment.”

Ryan nods. His first card, and it’s fairly neutral enough, though bordering on a note of warning. It’s not quite a lecture. He doesn’t need any more of those.

 

The hag looks unimpressed, turning over another card.

 

“The four of cups- you are jaded and tired of life's whims, the tide of destiny changing as it pleases, and take things for granted.” Her words grow more personal now, the accent growing stronger.

“Appreciate your friends, child. You never know when they will be gone.”

 

Ryan snorts quietly. He and his friends have long years ahead of them yet. They’ve just released their debut, and soon they’ll be touring with the big fish, chasing even bigger dreams. And true, he may be jaded, but that was just the way of the world, and the fickleness of life. Still, he can hardly believe that he’s still listening, and he’s lamenting the loss of his spare change when that gravelly old voice speaks again.

 

“Do not mock me, child. The future does not always hold what you seek. Keep your friends close and your enemies far, and you will not have to face what I see in store for you.”

 

“I am not a child.” Ryan is more than irritated now, an edge creeping into his voice. The word brings back memories of being powerless, of nights spent in hospital wings, and starched white linoleum floors, commotions on gurneys, the scent of stale whiskey and drunken limbo. His good mood has dissipated.

 

“Are you now?” Her tone is polite and the brunet takes it as anything but. He seethes. “May we continue?”

 

She is just a tired old woman trying to scrape by.

 

“Of course.”

 

He is just a weary, nihilistic poet trying to find the beauty in the world again, and failing.

 

“The five of cups- remorse over a severed relationship or unfulfilled dream. Heartache.”

 

“Is the entirety of my future supposed to be tragic?” The words are supposed to come out sarcastic, but they ring with a twinge of bitter sorrow.

 

“It’s up to you and how you interpret it.” 

 

“You’re the fortune teller!” The words come out explosively, reminding him too much of his father. “You’re supposed to tell me!”

 

She just blinks, cool and composed. She does not care as Ryan draws himself up, slams the chair back under the table and steps out of the shade and into the sunlight, the dimming light casting long shadows after him as he goes.

 

As he steps out, Vegas lights dance dazzling on the strip, whirling round and round like some fanatical merry-go-round, but Ryan never stumbles, no, he walks sure-footed into a seedy tavern in the low end of town after a few hours and drinks himself into an unsteady slumber.

 

It is a call that wakes him. And it is his father’s voice that greets Ryan when he answers it.

Ryan flicks his cell shut, hearing it snap with a savage satisfaction, and goes back to sleep on top of the bar.

 

_The first thing,_ Ryan ponders as he falls asleep, _that rules his life, is anger._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first published Ryden fic so to be frank, I'm pretty excited. With the Easter holidays ahead, I'm probably going to be a wordpress machine by the morrow.


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